


Like Lead Into the Sea

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Happy Ending, M/M, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: "Edward was not a man given to imagination. If he were, he might have felt as though his heart had been ripped out through his throat. As it was, he merely felt an all-encompassing, all-consuming sadness. The worst of it was, Thomas was right. They were different in nearly every way possible. If not for the Navy, they would never have met. But Edward didn't look at Thomas and see only something he wished to forget. He looked at him and saw everything he wanted to remember about that voyage: their stolen moments, made all the precious for their rarity, and the most powerful love—the only real love—Edward has ever felt."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally thought Robert was the canon name for Thomas' brother, but it seems I may, in fact, have got it from the works of the amazing vegetas. So thanks for that!
> 
> I always enjoy when writers share little tidbits of information they came across during their research. My contribution is: people have been saying "I don't give a fuck" since at least 1790. You're welcome.

_"The self same moment I could pray/And from my neck so free/The albatross fell off, and sank/Like lead into the sea." _\- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner."

The letter arrives with the morning post, and is waiting beside his boiled egg when Edward comes down for breakfast. It's from London, written in a cramped hand Edward has to squint at to read. 

_Dear Leftenant Litle sir,_

_I am riting on behaf of Mr. Robert Jopson, on acount of hes not to good with his letters. I am not to good neether, so pleas forgiv me. _

_Some months ago, Bobbys brother Tom came back hom. You will no this alredey. The doctor says Tom is geting much beter now and he reley looks it sir. But his mind is not geting beter like his bodey is. _

_Tom sed you were his particuler frend when he wer at see. If its not to much troble, we thot if you com to see him the site of you mite help our Tom. We wuld be ever so grateful sir Bobby and me and Tom to I am shure. I have riten Bobby's adres at the botom of the leter. I am his naybor so you can speek to me if you sees me to._

_Thank you and God bless you sir._

_Yours sincereley,_

_Mrs. Fred Parker_

Edward is on a train to London before the egg is even cold in its cup. 

***

Edward died in the Arctic. 

He's certain of it. Frozen, starved, ill. Lying in a tent beside Thomas, who hadn't been lucid in days. Edward tried to get close, to share what little body heat he had, but Thomas didn't want him. He thought Edward was a stranger, or the devil, or maybe he knew exactly who he was. At every touch, he screamed and writhed until Edward left him alone to his nonsensical ramblings about food and the captain and some unnamed person who was “terribly naughty for teasing the cat so.” 

One morning, Edward woke up to find Thomas quiet. Edward didn't touch him. He didn't want to feel the cool stillness of his body that would confirm his death. 

Instead, Edward lay in his own bedroll and closed his eyes again. Everything had been a colossal failure. He hadn't found the captain. He hadn't saved Thomas. He hadn't done anything. He'd just stayed here, to die with the men he'd once argued in favour of abandoning. Seemed a just end. 

He was slipping away. There was no white light or beckoning relatives, as he'd once heard Dr. Goodsir posit, but Edward could feel his worries dissipating, could feel himself gradually detaching from the world. When the tent flap flew open and a fresh wave of frigid air blew in, Edward watched with a removed interest, as if observing the scene from a distance.

“Is there anybody at home?” Sir James Ross asked, so flippantly that Edward scowled with annoyance, and promptly passed out. 

***

Edward knows Thomas does not come from the most salubrious of locations. 

“Proper rose out of shit, I am," Thomas said one night with a grin, his accent coarse. Edward was so used to hearing his more refined tones, it felt as though this was a false voice, put on for show, rather than it being the other way around. It was the only time he did it. They didn't speak about his origins, or about Edward's, again. They didn't often speak at all. Their time together was too precious to spend much of it talking, although Edward sometimes wished they could have done more. It would have made their relations seem more like a true love affair, and less like a string of hasty assignations. 

The address given in Mrs. Parker's letter is, as Edward expected, a rookery in Marylebone. Ramshackle buildings, pressed tightly together, surround a muddy courtyard. One of the buildings has a significant hole in its roof. All are coated black with coal dust. Clothesline upon clothesline stretch between the buildings, reaching up, it seems, to the slate grey sky itself. Although it's well past dawn, an unseen cock crows, over and over again. 

In a corner of the courtyard, near the privy, two mangy dogs are up to something. Edward is familiar with dogs, and has had several in his life, but even he can't tell if they're fighting or fucking. A small group of wide-eyed children, dressed in rags, peer at him from a doorway. The entire place reeks of poverty, of desperation, of shit. 

Edward feels out of place, but that's nothing new. Everywhere he goes now, he feels out of place. _Not fit for polite company_, he thought once, as he stood at a party surrounded by trivial people with their trivial concerns, who would never understand what Edward had survived even if he could bring himself to tell them about it. 

“Lieutenant Little, sir? Is that you?” A voice calls from across the courtyard. Edward looks over to see a young woman. She's fair-haired, with an equally blonde child at her skirts, a baby in her arms, and another evident in her swollen belly. She smiles at him like he's the best thing she's seen in months. “Oh, God bless you for comin' so quick, sir.” 

Edward isn't sure how she recognizes him. He's not in uniform, but he is dressed as a gentleman, and he imagines there are few enough of those around here. He crosses over to her. The mud is deep and sticky, squelching with each footstep and clinging to his shoes. 

He assumed, quite without reason, that Mrs. Parker would be an elderly woman, or at least middle-aged. In actuality, she looks barely more than twenty. She and her children are shoeless, but otherwise well-kept, brushed and cleaned to a degree Edward has to admit shocks him, a little, given their surroundings. 

“Molly.” Mrs. Parker nudges the child. “Run upstairs and fetch Mr. Jopson.” The child obeys, disappearing into one of the buildings. “As I said in my letter, sir, poor Tom's been in a state. But he'll be better with you here, I'm certain of it.” 

“I hope your certainty is rewarded, madam.” Edward can't bet on it. 

He can't bet on anything where Thomas is concerned. Waiting for the girl to return, Edward feels as anxious as he ever did aboard _Terror_, once he'd realized how he felt for Thomas but didn't yet know how Thomas felt in return. He feels his mouth drying, his palms sweating. The child seems to be gone an interminable amount of time. 

“It must have been a real adventure up there with the Esquimaux, sir,” Mrs. Parker says, conversationally. 

“That is certainly one way to describe it.” Another time, Edward might have chatted with her. Not about the Arctic, certainly. That subject is a closed book. He is not fond of idle discourse, but he has a great deal of experience with it. At the moment, his mind is too focused elsewhere.

At long last, Mrs. Parker says, “There you are, Molly!” Edward looks over his shoulder, and sees Thomas. 

It's not. For a moment, he truly believes it is, that somehow Thomas has recovered so well and so completely it appears he never went to the Arctic, perhaps never went to sea at all. The moment is fleeting. Edward looks a little closer. Despite the identical eyes, the nose, even the flopping strand of hair that plagued Thomas even as Edward found it charming, this is man is not him. 

“Lieutenant Little, sir.” The man puts out his hand. “I ain't half grateful you came, sir. God bless you.” 

“Mr. Jopson,” Edward says, making an educated guess of his own. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” 

It is, in a way. Edward sometimes wondered about Thomas' brother. “Nothing like me,” was all Thomas said of him, which seems at odds with the evidence now presented. Thomas said Bobby was seven years his junior. Compared to the last time Edward saw Thomas, in the naval hospital, he would say it now looks more like there's twenty years between them, but if not for that, Edward doubts that a man without his intimate knowledge could easily tell the two of them apart. 

“Where is...” Despite himself, Edward hesitates. He's never spoken the man's Christian name aloud in front of others. It's always been a secret thing, reserved for the time they had alone. “Thomas?” He finishes. 

“Sleeping, sir. He don't sleep too well at night on account of his nightmares, so he does it in the daytime. He'll be at it for a bit yet." Jopson looks at him. "You fancy a drink? I'll tell you everything."

The gin shop is crowded. This is something else to which Edward has been forced to become accustomed. During his years away, the population of London seems to have exploded. He doesn't remember it being so crowded, doesn't remember feeling so oppressed by the sheer excess of humanity around him. He retired to the country as soon as he could, ostensibly for his health, but mostly because he couldn't stand being around so many bloody people. 

Here, however, the excess of humanity is useful. The crowd is too noisy, the people too preoccupied with their own conversations, to listen in on Edward's. It's a relief. Flapping ears are always a concern aboard ship, particularly for those like Edward and Thomas who truly had something to hide. 

Once they have drinks in hand, Jopson leads them to a corner of the room, near a couple of women arguing about what Edward neither knows nor cares. 

“Tommy's not as ill these days, that's for certain.” Jopson raises his glass to Edward, then takes a drink. “He ain't lost any more teeth, and he's stronger all the time, I can see it with me own eyes.” _Just like a Jopson_, Edward thinks, _to begin with the positive._ He sips from his own drink. He's never been fond of gin. Too flowery. It reminds him of his mother. “But,” Jopson goes on, “he's got some strange fancies.” 

“Fancies?” 

“He won't have no tinned food in the house, for one.” Edward can understand that. Although Goldners' is long gone, Edward would struggle, he thinks, to trust any other manufacturer. He hasn't tested himself. “And the peelers have picked him up twice for standing outside the shops tellin' folk not to buy 'em. The blue-aprons don't like him bothering their customers.” 

Edward blinks. The idea of kind, good-natured Thomas being taken in by the police, for any reason whatsoever, is so foreign as to border on the absurd. “Drunk,” Jopson goes on, and that's even more shocking. After what he experienced with the captain, Edward can name a hundred—a thousand—men he'd have expected to take to the bottle before Thomas did. 

“Does that happen frequently? The drinking?” Edward asks. 

“Too often for me. Says it lets him forget what he don't want to remember.” Jopson's worry is reflected in his wide eyes. “He told me you was his best friend, sir, but I don't know if you know about our mother.” 

“I know a little.” He knows she took her own life after battling the demon laudanum. “I can't tell the captain that,” Thomas told Edward, during Captain Crozier's convalescence. “But I won't fail him the way I did her.” His mother's death didn't seem like a question of failure, certainly not on Thomas' part. Edward wanted to say so, but sentiment never came easy to him, not even with Thomas. He was still trying to formulate the words when the captain called for Thomas, and another private moment was shattered. 

“I worry that's what'll become of him. Please, sir. God preserved Tommy, and you, and all the others who made it back. I don't want to lose him now.” 

“I will do what I can, Mr. Jopson.” It's the most solemn pledge Edward has ever taken. 

Jopson smiles that damn Thomas-like smile. “Bobby.”

“Bobby,” Edward repeats, as something tugs on his sleeve. He looks down to see Mrs. Parker's shoeless little girl. 

“Mam says to come home, sir,” she tells him. “The other Mr. Jopson's out of bed.”

***

Captain Crozier was never found. 

This is Edward's most profound disappointment. Edward couldn't save him alone. The party who had, against Edward's wishes, continued on without him were rescued first. It was they who led Sir John's men to the camp where Edward and Thomas lay. They were the only survivors. No trace of the mutineers was ever encountered and, with them, the captain was lost for good. That gnaws at Edward. Crozier deserved a better fate than that. He can think of few people who don't.

The trip back to England felt far longer than it was. The ship carried a full crew, with little room for passengers. Edward slept in a hammock for the first time since he was a boy, but more often he roamed the ship, desperate for something to do, some task on which he could focus his wandering mind.

Thomas was the most seriously ill of the remaining men. The ship's doctors doubted he would make it home, but, as Edward told them, they didn't know Thomas. Since it was the road to health, Edward spent every mealtime in sickbay, spoon feeding the empty-eyed husk that was Thomas until one day, Thomas looked at him with such a light in his face Edward knew he was back. 

“You didn't abandon me.” Thomas' voice was hoarse, but there was a sense of wonder in it, and an element of surprise which embarrassed Edward, although he could scarcely dispute it. He was the one, after all, who once spoke passionately about the logic of abandoning the ill. As disloyal as it was, he had also thought very seriously about going with the others when they left the camp. 

“I wouldn't leave you,” he said. 

He didn't. Edward stayed by Thomas' side after that. When land appeared on the horizon, he ignored the clucking doctors and brought Thomas on deck for his first glimpse of England. It was a sight neither of them thought to see again. That they experienced it together, with Edward's arm around Thomas' waist for support and Thomas resting his head on Edward's shoulder when he grew tired, seemed a blessing beyond all imagination. 

Thomas was admitted to the Royal Naval Hospital in Plymouth. This was where he and Edward last met, as he was on the verge of being released. Thomas' recovery had come on apace since arriving back in England. There was even a touch of pink in his cheeks again. When Edward sat on the edge of his bed, he had to keep himself from leaning over and brushing the hair from Thomas' forehead, the way he'd done when Thomas was truly ill. He was healthy enough now that it was more seemly to leave such intimacies for when they were alone, rather than in a room full of nurses and fellow patients. 

“What do you plan to do next?” Thomas asked, taking Edward a little aback. 

“I had not thought much beyond seeing you well.” 

Rather than meeting Edward's gaze, his eyes were pinned on the wall opposite, seemingly upon the large crucifix Edward assumed was meant to offer solace to the patients. It did nothing for Edward. “I feel,” Thomas said, “we ought to go our separate ways.” 

That was the last thing Edward had expected to hear. Whatever they did next, wherever they went, Edward assumed they would do it together. 

“We have nothing in common, Edward. Nothing beyond our experiences. And I want to forget those as quickly as I can.” 

Edward was not a man given to imagination. If he were, he might have felt as though his heart had been ripped out through his throat. As it was, he merely felt an all-encompassing, all-consuming sadness. The worst of it was, Thomas was right. They were different in nearly every way possible. If not for the Navy, they would never have met. But Edward didn't look at Thomas and see only something he wished to forget. He looked at him and saw everything he wanted to remember about that voyage: their stolen moments, made all the precious for their rarity, and the most powerful love—the only _real_ love—Edward has ever felt. 

“I'm going back to my people,” Thomas said, and that hurt more, somehow, than if he had said “my home” or even “my family.” “You should do the same.” 

Edward did, although never in his life had they felt less like “his people.” 

They are rich, but not aristocratic. Edward's grandfather invented some contraption that's terribly useful in textile factories. Edward doesn't understand exactly what it is. He doubts any of his living family members do, but they continue to live handsomely off its profits. The relative newness of their wealth makes them particularly sensitive to any semblance of difference, anything that might draw too much attention. Having a brother recently returned from a very well known and monumentally disastrous Arctic expedition could most definitely be described as such. After a short and stilted visit, it was decided by all Edward would have the family's country house in Berkshire for his exclusive use while he “recuperated.” It's a little ridiculous, having a house with eight bedrooms and four full-time staff to himself, but it keeps him neatly out of the way. At the same time, it allows his relatives to show off their compassion and generosity for their “ailing brother.” Even though Edward is far more heartsick than anything else. 

When he and Bobby arrive at the rookery, the little girl, Molly, leads them up a narrow staircase to a turret room. Before they even enter it, Edward hears Thomas' voice, echoing through the thin walls. It's not the only one. A cacophony of talking, shouting, crying and even singing surrounds them from what feels like a hundred directions. 

The voice coming from Thomas' room is low, and sounds fractious. Edward hears another one, Mrs. Parker's, say, “Me and Bobby thought it would be ever so nice for you to see your friend again, Tommy.” 

“And I,” Thomas says, “thought it would be ever so nice if you and Bobby minded your own fucking business.” 

Being an officer in Her Majesty's Royal Navy is not something one _does_; it's something one _is_. It doesn't, at that moment, matter this is Thomas. Edward fixes him with a glare that has withered far harder men than him. “You would use such language in the presence of a lady?”

Thomas looks at him. His hair is as neatly trimmed as it was in the hospital, but for that stubborn flopping strand shared by his brother. His full beard has returned, however, just as when they lay dying beneath canvas at the top of the world. He squares his shoulders. “My apologies, Sarah. Molly. Margaret.” Edward is uncertain who that is, until the baby in Mrs. Parker's arms coos. “I have no call to speak to you in such a fashion. My anger lies elsewhere.” 

“Oh, don't say that, Tommy. Bobby were only trying to help. You know how he loves you, we all do...” 

“It's all right, Sarah.” Bobby breaks in. “You and the girls go get your tea. Your Fred'll be home soon.” 

Mrs. Parker looks between the three of them. The room is small and ill-furnished, a bed and a table beneath a slanted roof. It seems almost breathtakingly crowded with four adults and two small children inside. Edward has heard stories of much larger families living in even smaller rooms in places like this. He can't imagine it. He doesn't wish to. 

“I'll send up some dinner later,” Mrs. Parker says, at last, and ushers Molly back down the narrow staircase. 

There's a silence once she's gone, but Bobby doesn't let it last long. “You been at the bottle since you woke up?” 

“It's only been a quarter of an hour.” 

“That don't mean much though to you, though.” Bobby doesn't wait for an answer. “Don't worry, I told the lieutenant about your troubles. Had to, didn't I? That's why he came. To help.” 

Thomas scoffs. “There's nothing he can do.” 

Edward is a leader. Or was, once. He makes difficult decisions quickly. They aren't always right, but he makes them. “Bobby,” he asks. “Do you have a job?” 

“Not at the moment, sir.” Bobby's gaze slides to Thomas, and Edward knows, without having to hear it said, that Bobby either lost his job because of Thomas or left it to care for him. 

“Then I would like you both to come back to my house in Berkshire.” Edward has no idea how to help Thomas, where he might even start, but it seems like getting away from this wretched place would be a good first step. He wishes he could bring Mrs. Parker and her children, but filling the house with the London underclass might attract unwanted attention from his family. “For a little while.” He just stops himself from adding _please_. 

Thomas laughs, bitterly. “No, thank you, Edward. Whatever Bobby might have told you, I'm in no need of a white knight.”

“I am not a white knight. I am your superior officer.” He hates that it has to be this way with Thomas of all people, but he can't think of another. “And I believe you are still drawing half-pay from the Navy, are you not?” All the survivors are, as grudging as it was on the part of the Admiralty. They wanted to court-martial them all the moment they set foot in England. It was only thanks to the formidable Lady Jane and her wealthy allies they backed down, and Edward and the others were seen as fortunate survivors, rather than criminals. Still, Edward doesn't expect to receive another commission in the foreseeable future, if ever. 

“Captain Crozier made me a lieutenant.”

“Third lieutenant." He doesn't add that Thomas' promotion was never approved. Thomas knows that. The meagre pay he's drawing will be based on a steward's salary. 

“I have no call to heed you.” 

“Then heed _me_, you bastard.” Bobby's voice cracks, tears in his eyes. The sight tugs at Edward's heart, and not just because the man reminds him so much of Thomas. “You didn't come back from the fucking Arctic just to off yourself like Mam did. I ain't going to let you. So if Lieutenant Little wants us to go back with him, that's what we're fucking doing, even if I have to knock your fucking lights out and drag you onto the train in a bag.” He wipes angrily at his eyes. 

Thomas looks tired. “He's no hero, Bobby,” he says. “None of us are.”

Bobby throws his arms around Thomas. Edward looks away awkwardly as Thomas embraces his brother. Orders are one thing; emotion is something else entirely. Something he'd tried to avoid altogether, in fact, until he met Thomas. 

“A short visit,” Thomas says, sighing, when Bobby releases him. “In Berkshire. Then I never want to see you again, Lieutenant Little, do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Edward says, and it hurts much more than it feels like a victory.


	2. Chapter 2

Their first Christmas in the ice was a joyous one. Spirits were still high, and the perpetual darkness was still a novelty to those, like Edward, who were experiencing it for the first time. On Christmas Day, with the exception of one or two left behind with an extra ration of tobacco in compensation, _Erebus_' officers came to celebrate aboard _Terror_. 

Although the wardroom was tightly packed, it was one of the most festive Christmas meals Edward can remember. The food was delicious, the drink free-flowing. So free-flowing, Edward partook more than usual. By the time the stewards wheeled out the Christmas pudding, he was at that perilous stage of drunkenness where he knew what he was doing, but didn't particularly care. 

Lieutenant Fairholme was the first to find a charm in his serving of pudding. “Lucky me!” He held up a tiny silver boot.

“Travel lies in your future, Lieutenant!” Sir John exclaimed. “Let us hope it's the near future, shall we?” A laugh, heartier than the weak joke deserved, went up around the table. 

Mr. Blanky followed. “A wish for me,” he said, showing off his little silver wishbone. “And I think I'll use it to wish for another drink.” He held up his glass. Jopson moved to refill it, putting him in Edward's line of sight. Later, Edward blamed that for what happened next. In reality, while he couldn't always look at the man, Edward always knew Jopson's precise position in any room they occupied together.

With his next bite of pudding, Edward felt something hard between his teeth, larger than the beads of metal they were all used to picking out of their food. Reaching into his mouth, he pulled out a silver ring. Captain Crozier, who had seemed nearly insensate for most of the meal, noticed at once. 

“It seems Lieutenant Little will be renouncing his bachelorhood in the year to come,” he called out, to a chorus of snickering and hooting. 

“Nonsense,” Edward replied. He held out the ring to the man still standing at Mr. Blanky's elbow. “We all know Jopson's the only one pretty enough to find love on the ice.” 

In his head, it sounded humorous. Out loud, less so. An awkward silence descended over the room. Edward saw Sir John exchange a glance with Commander Fitzjames. The rest of the assembled officers stared at him, and Edward wished fervently for something, anything, to take their attention away. 

Something did. It was Jopson himself. “Thank you, sir.” He took the ring. “I shall be sure to permit you the first dance with my lovely Esquimaux bride.” That got a large laugh, more out of relief it seemed than anything else, and the conversation moved on. Edward knew he should at least make eye contact with Jopson, to show that he appreciated him salvaging the situation, but for the first time since they met, Edward found he couldn't bring himself to look at the man. 

He avoided Jopson for the next week, as far as possible. When it wasn't possible, he avoided his gaze, which also wasn't easy. Jopson seemed to be looking at him very great deal all of a sudden. 

On New Year's Eve, the weather was relatively mild. With the captain's vague permission, most of the men got wrapped up and went onto the ice at a few minutes to midnight, to ring in the new year beneath the lights. Edward stayed back. He was trying to think of something interesting to write in his logbook when there was a knock at the door of his cabin. 

“Come in,” he said, then immediately wanted to rescind the offer when he saw it was Jopson. “Yes? What is it?” 

“Many of the officers take amusement from teasing me, sir.” 

“Have you reported this to the captain?” 

Jopson shook his head. “You never tease me.” He held up a hand. In it was the little silver ring from the Christmas pudding. 

Edward didn't know what to do. He felt more exposed than he'd ever thought possible. He wanted to escape, but he was trapped. They were encased in ice on a permanently listing ship. There was nowhere to go. 

Jopson stepped forward, slowly raising a hand to Edward's shoulder. Edward didn't move. He couldn't. Jopson licked his lips and, as the celebratory bells marking midnight rang out on the ice, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Edward's. 

It was light at first, tentative. Edward didn't have the restraint to keep it that way for long. With a murmur of encouragement from the other man, he swept Jopson into his arms and into a deep, greedy kiss. 

That night is one of Edward's most treasured memories. He indulges in it now, lying securely in his bed in the English countryside, picturing the way he and Thomas had clung to one another a lifetime away. The way Thomas had seemed so happy with Edward. The way he'd been so eager to debase himself on his knees. Although with Thomas, unlike with the other men who'd obliged Edward in that way, it didn't feel like debasement. It felt like love. As with the perpetual darkness, Edward had not experienced it before, but that didn't prevent him from seeing it for what it was. 

Edward is remembering the long ago softness of Thomas' lips, the gentleness of his hands and the way his open mouth panted damply against Edward's cheek, when the heart-wrenching sound of tears breaks into his reverie.

Although it is well past midnight, Edward shoves his feet into his slippers and takes his dressing gown from its hook. When Edward arrived home with his two guests, the housekeeper, Mrs. Anderson, and her maid Dora quickly made up two guest rooms. The sound is coming from what the family calls the “Stag Room”, after a painting found within, presumably because it sounds move impressive than “the third room on the left.” At the moment, the room is Thomas'.

Edward hesitates, then knocks on the door. The sobbing ceases, but there is no answer. 

“Thomas. It's me. Edward.” Still nothing. Edward turns the doorknob, although he doesn't know what he's going to do if Thomas throws him out of the room. He does not have to contend with the issue. The door is locked. 

“Get Bobby.” Thomas' voice comes at last, weak and tired. “I want Bobby. Please.” 

It shouldn't crush Edward's heart the way it does. Edward shouldn't, by rights, have any heart left where it comes to Thomas, but a tiny piece still hangs on, despite all reason. 

“Yes,” Edward says, but when he turns around, Bobby is already there, wearing a too-big pair of Edward's own pyjamas. 

“He all right?” 

“He would like to see you.” 

Bobby rattles the doorknob in turn. “Let me in then, Tommy. Come on.” 

Edward doesn't wait to see Thomas open the door. This is clearly a private moment, and Edward loves—Edward _respects_—Thomas far too much to intrude. Instead, he goes back to his own bedroom and fails to sleep. 

He's still awake when the valet, Vickers, comes in to dress him for the day. 

To Edward's surprise, Bobby is in the dining room when Edward arrives downstairs for breakfast, eggs and toast on his plate and tea in his cup. 

“Morning, sir,” he says, although Edward has asked him several times to call him by his Christian name, or at the very least by his surname. “Hope you don't mind me helping meself to some food.” 

“No, no, not at all. Breakfast is a casual affair,” Edward replies, then regrets it. It's something the rest of his family would say.

Edward fills his own plate and sits across from Bobby. The morning newspaper is set out, thanks to Mrs. Anderson, as is the post. Edward leafs through it, trying to summon some interest for a letter from his sister and another from a distant school friend. 

“Should we send up something for Thomas?” Edward asks, when he can be silent no longer. 

“I don't think so, sir. Me and him had a bit of a chat last night.” 

“How is he?” 

Bobby smiles, which Edward takes as an encouraging sign. He hopes. “He'll be down.” 

Bobby goes out to the garden once he's finished his breakfast, but Edward remains, pretending to read the newspaper. When Mrs. Anderson comes to gather the dishes, she says, “Vickers has got bad news, sir. His poor old mother's taken ill again. I told him he could go to her. He'd have asked you himself, but the boy just came to let him know.”

“Fine.” 

“Thank you, sir.” She's a middle-aged woman who looks old, probably due to a lifetime of hard work. “Let me know when your other friend is up and about. I'll make him up a nice hot plate.” 

Edward nods. Despite Bobby's assurance, he's not entirely convinced Thomas is going to make an appearance. He's on the verge of giving up when the dining room door opens. 

Thomas has made an effort, clearly, to be well put together, although he still bears the beard that reminds Edward too much of the Arctic. Neither Thomas nor Bobby came with a lot of clothing. Mrs. Anderson was able to find a few articles belonging to Edward's brother and brother-in-law, who, while still larger than the Jopson brothers, are at least more similar in size to them than Edward himself. In most respects. Thomas comes in wearing Edward's brother's shirt, which is just a little too long, a waistcoat, which is just slightly too wide, and a pair of trousers held up by, it appears, braces and hope. 

“Thomas.” Edward stands up, then sits down, immediately afraid of overwhelming him. “Do you want something to eat? I can ask the housekeeper for anything you like.” He reaches for the bell pull.

“A cup of tea, please.” 

He should eat something, but Edward's not going to insist. He already ordered him to come here. He doesn't want to play that card too often. He can scarcely believe he played it once. When it comes to Thomas, Edward has never been the one truly in command. 

“All right. Tea.”

Thomas sits at the table, a weary sigh escaping his lips. “I am in no danger of taking my own life, Edward.” 

“It's your brother who was worried about that,” Edward replies, as if the idea hasn't also plagued him since he heard it was a possibility. 

“I know. We discussed it at length last night.” Thomas looks up. “And I'm sorry I was so rude to you.” 

“You don't need to apologize.” _I would do anything for you. _

“I know you must think me terribly weak for being this way, but...”

“No. You're not weak, not in the slightest.” The idea is ludicrous. He's the strongest man Edward knows. Edward tries to put this into words. As usual, the skill eludes him. “All of this is very difficult,” he says, which is a stupid statement, obvious and overly simplistic. “I'm poor at talking, as you know. But I can listen.” A soft, sweet expression comes to Thomas' face. It's the way he used to look when Edward found him sleeping on the wardroom table or in a chair in the great cabin, and gently woke him to help him back to his bunk. Edward's heart squeezes. “I understand, Thomas,” he says.

Just like that, the softness disappears. “No, you don't,” he replies, as Mrs. Anderson trundles in with her tea tray. 

***

The night before they abandoned the ships, Edward and Thomas lay together for a final time. 

“I wonder,” Thomas whispered, lips against Edward's ear, “how it will feel to make love to you on a level surface.” 

Edward smiled. “What if I'm only good at an angle?” 

“Then we shall have to endeavour to recreate this,” Thomas indicated the slanting ship, “once we get home. On a staircase, perhaps.”

“Might scandalize my family.” Although part of Edward wouldn't have minded seeing the looks on their pinched faces. 

“Not at your home. At the Admiralty. Show them just what we learned out here.” He punctuated the statement with a kiss to Edward's cheek. Shocked, Edward laughed, too loudly, and stifled himself at once. Thomas, evidently pleased at this reaction, kissed Edward again, this time on the lips. They were pressed as tightly together as it was possible to be, barring the act itself. Edward felt every one of Thomas' breaths as if it were his own, his chest moving with Thomas'. 

“What's the first thing you want to do,” Thomas murmured, after a moment. “When we get back?” 

Edward knew exactly what it was. He had it all planned. As soon as he could, he was going to Hatton Garden to buy a ring. A real one. Silver, he'd decided, with a modest diamond and maybe Thomas' initial on it. Nothing too ostentatious. The sort of thing Thomas could wear in public without anyone knowing who'd given it to him or what it truly meant. The two of them would know. That was enough.

He didn't say that. “Have a hot bath,” Edward replied, instead. “Probably stay in it the entire day.” 

“I like that idea. Will there be room for me, do you think?” 

“Always.”

***

Since it's England and springtime, the rain begins in the early afternoon. Thomas initially goes back to his bedroom but, to Edward's delight, he reappears not long after, as Edward and Bobby play chess in front of the raindrop-streaked drawing room window. 

“Remember the old man teaching us to play?” Bobby says, as Thomas arrives. He doesn't come too near, but sits on an armchair in front of the fire. 

“I don't know much about your father,” Edward puts in. Nothing, in fact. Thomas never mentioned him, even in passing. 

“He was a right bastard,” Bobby replies, cheerfully. “Worked at the docks all his life. Loved Tommy. Hated me.” 

Thomas shakes his head. “That's not true.” 

“'Course it is. All I ever heard was, 'why ain't you like Tommy?' Just about shit himself when you went to Antarctica. Told every person he passed in the street. He were still going on about it on his deathbed, and you'd been gone for years by then.” 

“He was proud of you, too,” Thomas insists. Whether or not it's true, Edward knows he believes it. That's the type of man Thomas is. 

“If he were here right now, you know what he'd say?” Bobby doesn't pause to allow speculation. He lowers his voice by an octave. “'Even when it comes to buggerin' men, Tom goes and gets himself a first lieutenant. Best you'd end up with, Bobby, is the bloke what scoops up the dog shit.'” 

Fear stabs at Edward's gut, a jagged icicle. He looks at Thomas, who brushes his hair from his forehead and says, “I told him.” 

“It ain't no affair of mine, sir,” Bobby goes on quickly. “Can't say I understand it, but Tommy's my brother, and you seem like a real gentleman. I just don't know how you ever kept it quiet on the ship. He were always loud as hell when he were tossin' himself off in our bed.” 

“Bobby!” Thomas sounds as mortified as Edward feels. He never imagined anybody knowing what he and Thomas had done—what they might do again in the future?—but if Thomas trusts his brother, Edward must trust Thomas. 

Thomas' embarrassment seems to delight Bobby. Grinning, he adds, “I don't half admire your determination to fuck, whatever you did.” 

_I covered his mouth_, Edward thinks, as he catches Thomas' eye. Wonders if he's remembering the same thing. 

Just like he did that first frigid January, when ice squeezed the ship and their affair was nascent, Edward chances a quick smile from across the room. Thomas doesn't smile back, but he doesn't look away, either. 

_Progress_, Edward thinks. _Perhaps_. Enough for him to go back to the game of chess, which he hates, and happily lose to Bobby. 

***

If one spends long enough in the ice, the continual creaks and groans begin to sound like words, sometimes even one's name. This is why Edward ignores the persistent, “Edward! Edward!”, until the realization slowly dawns that he is in his own bed in Berkshire, and his name is coming not from outside, but much closer. 

The room is lit only by a sliver of moonlight. It is enough for him to see Thomas lying on the bed beside him, nude. In an instant, Edward jolts to full wakefulness. 

“Thomas? What are you doing here?” 

“Edward. Thank God.” He grabs Edward by the front of his pyjamas, pulls him close, and kisses him. 

A good deal of time has passed since they last did it. All the months they've been home, the length of their trip back to England, the time they spent on the shale. For a moment, Edward is in heaven. Then, he notices the uncharacteristic roughness, the scraping of teeth and the clashing of tongues, Thomas' hands gripping his shoulders in a way that speaks more of violence than of love. _It's all right_, Edward tells himself. _It's just been too long._

It's more than that. When Thomas pulls away, he stares at Edward and says, “Fuck me. Hard.” 

Naughty talk was always more Thomas' domain than Edward's. Edward thrilled to hear him whisper about how wonderful his cock made Thomas feel, how Edward never failed to satisfy him sexually, how he spent hours daydreaming about being swept up in such a "manly lieutenant's" lascivious embrace. But that didn't feel like this. And while he could be as profane as any other sailor when he wished to be, in all the years they were together, Thomas never once referred to their relations as “fucking.” 

“Thomas...” Edward draws back, even as Thomas' hands scrabble at Edward's trousers. 

“I want it,” Thomas repeats, breathless. “You still want me, don't you?”

“Of course I...”

“Then what are you waiting for? I need it, Edward. Rough. Or have you forgotten how to use that massive cock of yours?” Edward most certainly has not forgotten. “Come on. Show me who's in command. Make me feel it.” 

Thomas is in command. Always. And this feels wrong. Edward presses his eyes shut and breathes deeply. Ignoring the pleas of his straining prick, Edward catches Thomas' wrists and pulls them away. 

“You want me to hurt you. Don't you?” Even in the thin light, Edward can see Thomas' expression shift guiltily. “I can't.” He would rather die, many times over, than harm a single hair on Thomas' head. And the idea of using sex, an act he always saw as sacred between them, to do it is even more repulsive. 

Edward's not sure what to expect. For Thomas to fight him, maybe. For him to flee. He does neither. Instead, Thomas collapses, deflated, onto the bed. “I deserve it.” 

Edward hesitates, acutely aware of how important it is not to say the wrong thing, even though he hasn't the faintest idea of what the right thing would be. He thinks of offering to fetch Bobby, but he can offer comfort to Thomas just as well as his brother can. He wants to. “I love you,” Edward says, finally. He has to say something, and it's true. Has been true for years.

For a moment, Thomas is still, and Edward is certain he said the wrong thing after all. Then Thomas reaches out with one hand. He doesn't move any closer, but he entwines his fingers with Edward's. Edward holds his hand fast, even as he bites his own lip and wills away his ever-hopeful erection. 

***

Edward loved Thomas more than ever when he sequestered himself to look after the ailing Captain Crozier. Loved him, and was humbled by him. Thomas' selfless kindness, reaching well above the call of duty, inspired Edward to himself be a kinder man. His kindness was primarily directed towards Thomas but, Edward thought, it was a start. 

One evening, when Thomas had again missed his dinner to care for the captain, Edward brought a tray of food to him. It was just a cup of tea and a plate of Goldners' slop, but when Thomas saw him, his eyes lit up like it was a banquet of rarest delicacies. 

“This looks lovely. Thank you, sir.” At first, Edward felt a great deal of awkwardness around being called “sir” by Thomas, but as time went on, he realized it was almost like a term of endearment. Thomas called all the officers sir, of course, but when he said it to Edward, it was softer. Gentler. It put Edward less in mind of rigid naval hierarchy and more in mind of comfortable familiarity. 

“It's a kiss when I can't give you one,” Thomas explained. “Think of it like that.” 

Edward did. He tried to do the same thing with “Mr. Jopson,”, but he doubted he was quite as successful. 

That evening, they left Captain Crozier snoring fitfully in his bunk, and sat in the abandoned great cabin. Edward patted his knee, which Thomas took, rightly, as an invitation to pull off his boots and place his feet on Edward's lap. As Thomas ate, Edward rubbed them with his thumbs, careful to keep one eye on the door lest he be forced to push him away at a moment's notice. 

“Mm.” Thomas groaned in satisfaction. Edward flattered himself that it wasn't the mysterious meat on his plate making him so happy. “Edward. You will be such a good husband one day.” 

_Only to you._ But that was a ridiculous thought, self-indulgent and foolish. “As will you,” he said, instead. “Looking after the captain the way you do. Looking after all of us. There is a lady out there who shall find herself very fortunate indeed to have you by her side.” 

Thomas looked at him evenly. “Ladies aren't quite to my taste.”

“Not at all?”

He shook his head. Edward hesitated. He shouldn't ask the question. They'd avoided the topic so far, but he already knew the answer. “Have you had other men?” He must have. Thomas had been in the Navy for years, and Edward couldn't possibly have been the only one to notice him.

"None like you. None who complimented my looks in front of two captains and two ships' worth of officers." Thomas nudged Edward playfully with his foot, but that memory was still a source of painful embarrassment. Edward could only hope most of those present at the time were too drunk to recall it afterwards. "But what about you? As handsome as you are, you must have the ladies flocking to you. And more than a few men, I imagine."

Edward's experience in this domain was scant. He'd danced with a young lady or two at Admiralty balls and family parties, more because he had to then out of any desire to do it. He liked ladies well enough, but couldn't see the purpose in marrying one while he was in the Navy. Why pledge one's life to a woman, then spend most of it away from her? Why father children and not see them grow up?

Men, of course, were more complicated. He'd admired a few, fumbled with a couple, but never on ship. There was only one man for whom he was willing to take that risk.

"None like you," Edward repeated. He paused, then leapt. "None who make me want to be a better man."

"Edward!" Thomas' face made that odd expression Edward had noticed from time to time, like he was about to cry, but smiling at the same time.

Pushing his tray away, Thomas glanced over his shoulder, towards the captain's closed door. The irregular snoring continued. With a wicked grin, Thomas wormed his left foot away from Edward's hands, and pressed it instead against Edward's groin. "You're sure I don't make you a worse man?" He curled his toes. Edward's cock stirred in response. "A naughty man? One who makes you want to do terrible," he punctuated the word with a squeeze of his foot, "terrible things? Such as unfasten your trousers in the great cabin?"

Edward shouldn't. He did, grappling with his buttons and his drawers while Thomas leaned forward and pulled off his own sock.

The sensation was novel. Edward had experienced Thomas' mouth, his hands, his cock many times before. His foot was a little stranger, but it was still Thomas, looking him in the eye as he stroked up and down, his tongue poking tantalizingly between his lips and his breath coming nearly as raggedly as Edward's own.

Edward was facing down the point of completion when the footsteps came. Thomas was the quicker of the two. He yanked his foot away in a flash, sitting upright as Edward stuffed his straining prick back into his trousers, gave up on the idea of fastening them, and pulled his jacket down instead. He slid up to the table as the door opened, hoping to God whoever was there didn't ask him to stand up.

"Ah, gentlemen. Good evening. How fares the captain?" Dr. MacDonald asked, stepping in to the room. 

“As well as can be expected, doctor." But for the flush on his cheeks, and the fact he had one bare foot beneath the table, Thomas was the picture of innocence and dignity. Unlike Edward, who had never felt so undignified in his life. "Been asleep about an hour now."

"I shan't disturb him then. You ought to get some rest as well, Mr. Jopson."

"Oh, I'm fine, sir."

"The carer must care for himself." MacDonald's gaze slid to Edward. "I can trust you to take Mr. Jopson to his bed, can't I, Lieutenant?"

It was an innocent remark. It had to be. It was Edward's own guilt that made him see a knowing glint in MacDonald's eye.

"Certainly, doctor."

"Very well. Fetch me if the captain needs me." MacDonald smiled as he left, but that meant nothing. He was always smiling.

When he'd gone, Edward turned to Thomas. "You don't think he..."

"No," Thomas replied. Then again, more firmly, "No, of course not. But perhaps we should follow his advice.” 

“Yes. You should go to your bunk.” God only knew, Crozier would probably have Thomas up again within a few short hours, if not sooner.

“No, Edward,” Thomas said, as if stating the obvious. “I should go to yours.”

One way or another, Edward thought, Thomas was going to be the death of him. And he was thoroughly and happily resigned to his fate. 

***

Edward wakes to the familiar sensation of sunlight streaming through his bedroom window, and, a moment later, to the less familiar sensation of someone in bed with him. 

He rolls over. Thomas lies facing Edward, his eyes open. “You snore dreadfully,” he says, his tone accusing. “You didn't do that in the tent.”

“I've put on a little weight since then.” Edward blinks. “I'm sorry.” 

Thomas rolls onto his back. “No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have made you uncomfortable.”

“You didn't...” Edward begins to lie. 

“Sorry,” Thomas goes on, “my mind is so addled.” 

“I told you, you don't have to apologize.”

Thomas shifts in place. Edward's body, slowly stirring, helpfully reminds him that, unless he has dressed and come back again, Thomas is nude beneath the bedclothes. “You cared for me all the way home, and the first thing I did when I was well enough was send you packing. I owe you a lot of apologies for that.” 

Not as many as Edward owes Thomas for what happened before. For the things he said. For how willing he'd been to abandon the ill, including Thomas.

Abruptly, Thomas sits up. The sheets fall to his waist, revealing a pale, slender body, with a scattering of dark hairs across his chest, and a little further down. Edward tries not to stare, but until last night, he had never seen Thomas completely unclothed. “I should go before your valet catches us out.” 

Edward is about to reluctantly agree, then remembers. “No, it's all right. He's away.” 

“Away?” 

“His father took ill. Mother. Something.” 

“Who's going to help you dress?” Thomas sounds so aghast, Edward almost laughs. He doesn't. 

“I can manage. My clothes are no longer as extravagant as when I was on board ship.”

“But you should have someone to help you.” A crease of worry appears on Thomas' forehead. Edward longs to smooth it out. He keeps his hands to himself. “Perhaps I could do it.” 

“If you like.” It may not be gentlemanly, but Edward will never turn down a chance to feel Thomas' touch. 

Thomas doesn't need to be asked twice. He's out of bed like a lightning bolt. Edward barely has time to admire his round, shapely backside before Thomas is wrapping himself in Edward's dressing gown and heading for his wardrobe. “Let me just see what you've got. You stay there for now.” There's a vibrancy to his voice Edward hasn't heard since he arrived at the house. Hasn't heard, if Edward is honest, since they left the ships. 

“All right,” Edward agrees. He would agree to anything to keep Thomas in this humour, even if it's just for a little while. 

***

The first summer they spent as lovers, Edward came off middle watch early one morning and found Thomas in the wardroom, polishing the table in his spotless white gloves. 

“What are you doing?” He asked. Thomas was diligent in his duties, but to be up and doing them at four o'clock seemed excessive. “Are you all right?”

“Can't sleep.” 

Edward nodded. The sun streamed through the windows, almost as bright as midday. “I know how you feel.” Edward's body was confused, as well, by the near-perpetual daylight. The curtains on the windows did little to help. "May I...” He pointed to a chair. 

“Of course,” Thomas said, delight in his voice. Edward sat. 

There was a question he'd long wanted to ask Thomas, but he'd been unsure of how to phrase it. Now, as he watched Thomas rub the cloth over the wood with loving care, he said, “Do you enjoy your duties?”

Thomas stopped. “Very much. Why? Have I given you cause to doubt it?”

“No. Not at all. It's just...”

“It's just you wonder how a man could possibly be satisfied doing women's work.” Thomas said it like he'd heard the question before. 

“It's not women's work,” Edward protested, although that was exactly what he'd been thinking. 

“It's important work,” Thomas said. “Whoever does it. And I like it.” 

“You would wish to do it forever?” During his sleepless nights, Edward had started to consider what might come next for him, once they finally broke free of the ice and found the Passage. Another commission, surely. Likely a promotion. But there was no guarantee of serving on the same ship as Thomas again. The odds were extremely slim they would. 

The thought of being separated from Thomas did strange, uncomfortable things to Edward's insides. He'd begun to speculate, purely fantastically, about an alternate future. He could get a job in London, he thought. Perhaps with the Admiralty, perhaps somewhere else. Thomas could find one, too. They could rent a little house together and see one another every day. They could sleep together every night, and wake up together every morning. 

That last part in particular was what made the plan so alluring. It was not common for bachelor friends to live together, but it was not unheard of, and the Navy forged strong friendships. They wouldn't be the first to do it. 

Thomas shrugged. “Maybe not forever. I've thought of having a home of my own. Looking after my own things instead of somebody else's for a change.” 

“Would you...” Once again, Edward couldn't meet his eye. “Would you wish to share those things with anybody?” 

Thomas' smile was warmer than the ever-present but disappointingly weak sun. He didn't have chance to say anything, though, before there were footsteps at the door. 

“Lieutenant Little! The captain wants to see you,” Lieutenant Irving reported, and Edward had no choice but to leave Thomas to his polishing. 

***

Edward didn't know how many clothes he owned, until he saw them laid out across his bed. 

“Some of these are in dreadful condition,” Thomas tuts, holding up a shirt with a frayed cuff. “I don't wish to speak ill of your man Vickers, especially if his mother is unwell, but it appears I shall have to do the repairs myself.” He doesn't sound the least bit put out by the thought. 

For the first time in his life, Edward knows exactly what to say. “Would you do that for me, Thomas? Please?”

“Of course. For now, you're going to have to wear this one.” He holds up another. “Along with this waistcoat and those trousers. Where do you keep your underthings?” 

Thomas is a better valet than Vickers. Edward doesn't think it's his prejudice saying it. His seams haven't been this straight, his hair so neatly combed, since he was aboard _Terror_, and possibly not even then. Once he's dressed, Thomas steps back and surveys him, an artist, it seems, regarding his canvas. He licks his thumbs, and, to Edward's astonishment, reaches out to smooth Edward's eyebrows. 

“Did you do that to the captain?” 

Thomas flushes. “Sometimes.” Edward tries to picture it, in vain. Thomas hesitates, then darts forward to press the briefest of kisses to Edward's cheek. “I didn't do that,” he says. “Now, I'd better get myself dressed, hadn't I?” 

As far as Edward is concerned, Thomas can stay in his dressing gown all day. But he goes, and Edward heads downstairs to the dining room. 

“You seen Tommy today?” Bobby asks, around a mouthful of kippers. “I looked in his room, but he weren't there.” 

“He was with me. Helping me with my clothing,” Edward adds, lest Bobby get any other ideas. 

“He seem like himself?” 

None of them would ever be themselves again. Those men died in the North. But, “He seemed a little happier,” Edward says, and that's all they can hope for. 

***

“I don't know what's wrong with you,” Thomas spat, eyes blazing as pinpricks of blood pooled on his hairline. Edward had never seen him so angry. He'd tried to escape him, but there was nowhere to go, and Thomas had followed him here, into the tent. “How you can dare to suggest such a callous plan, how you can honestly believe leaving the ill behind...”

“I didn't mean you.” 

Thomas laughed without mirth. “That's even better. You're going to pick and choose who comes along, are you? Decide who lives and dies? Play God?” 

“Shut up.” The camp was no more private than the ship. In many ways, it was less so. Canvas does nothing to muffle sound, and Edward knew everybody could hear every word of this conversation. 

“I thought I knew you. After everything we've been to one another...”

Edward grabbed Thomas' arm. He didn't wish to harm him, only to stop him talking, but Thomas' body was so frail, he winced in pain. Edward let him go, guiltily. “You can't say those things,” he hissed. 

“Nobody gives a fuck anymore, Edward,” Thomas replied, at full volume. 

“I do. I'm trying to do my job.” Why couldn't Thomas understand that? “Our job. To keep as many men alive as possible. You've made your position very clear, as has the captain. There's no need to discuss this further.”

Now, Thomas lowered his voice. “When I die, I want it to be with you at my side, and the captain. I don't want to be alone in this godforsaken place. I wouldn't wish that on any man. How could you?” 

There was nothing to say to that. Edward put his arms around Thomas and held on, trying to ignore the sharpness of Thomas' bones and the slide of his too-big clothing. Maybe Thomas was right. Maybe nobody cared anymore. Le Vesconte came in and said nothing, just gave a sad, sympathetic smile and went out again. 

***

As the spring rain continues to fall in Berkshire, they fall into a pattern. Thomas doesn't return to Edward's bed at night, but he sits in the drawing room with them during the day, mending and improving Edward's shabby clothing while Edward continually loses to Bobby at chess. To Mrs. Anderson's consternation, Thomas also takes to making their beds, all three of them, and bringing the dirty linens down to be washed. 

“It's no comment on the quality of your work, Mrs. Anderson,” Edward assures her, although Thomas has not, in truth, been complimentary about it. “My friend is eccentric. Leave him be.”

“All right, sir,” Mrs. Anderson agrees, but she sounds highly dubious. 

In the mornings, Thomas appears in Edward's room to dress him. When he's finished, he always places a light kiss on Edward's cheek. Edward, feeling as though he is in the presence of some majestic wild animal he does not wish to frighten, doesn't reciprocate. He does sometimes gather the courage to place his hand briefly over Thomas' as Thomas fastens the buttons on his waistcoat. Thomas seems to like it. Once, he even turns his hand to squeeze Edward's fingers, which Edward finds encouraging in the extreme.

On the fourth morning, when Thomas comes to Edward's room, he is clean-shaven. 

“I got a bit tired of the beard,” he says, nonchalantly, as Edward stares at the face he hasn't seen in far too long. “Thought I might do the same for you and Bobby. You're both looking a little rakish these days.” 

Thomas has shaved Edward only once before, shortly after that first New Year's Eve on _Terror_. For Edward, the experience was agony. Having to keep his hands to himself while Thomas was so close, touching him in a way Edward fervently hoped he didn't touch the captain, was pure torture.

Apparently, Thomas remembers it as well. “Sit still this time,” he orders, as if last time was yesterday, and not years and years ago.

“I did my best,” Edward protests, as Thomas takes up the brush.

“I suppose you did.” Thomas begins to spread the shaving cream over Edward's face with a practised, methodical hand. “I was terribly bad, wasn't I? Didn't I end up on your knee?” He had, straddling Edward's lap and deliberately squirming until Edward spent in his trousers like a boy, his face still full of shaving cream. “Very unprofessional behaviour. I must have been in love.” Edward's eyes go to Thomas' face, but his expression is focused, giving nothing away.

Thomas shaves him carefully and precisely. As he slides the blade along Edward's jawline, he says, conversationally, “The captain knew about us.”

“_What?_”

“I said sit still, Edward! You nearly lost your nose.” 

“How did he know?” Until the end, in the tent with Le Vesconte, they had been nothing but discreet. Or so Edward had thought. 

Thomas wipes the razor and returns to Edward's cheek. “He knew it before we did. The day you gave me that ring from your Christmas pudding.” That bloody ring. “He said he didn't approve, but he was in no position to lecture anybody about ill-conceived love. And that I'd better keep it bloody quiet because it would break his heart to have to flog me. He was drunk though, and we never spoke of it again. So maybe he forgot.” Tears well in Thomas' eyes. He wipes them away and returns to his task. “I let him down.” 

“No.” That couldn't be further from the truth. 

“I told him he didn't have to worry about anything.” 

“No man could ask for more than what you did for him.”

“It wasn't enough. He isn't here. I saw Miss Cracroft's face when we came into port.” She and Lady Jane had been there to meet the ship, even though they knew Sir John and Captain Crozier were not aboard. Edward admired them a great deal for that, and even more when he learned exactly what they'd done for the rescue effort. “Why should I have what she can't?” 

“Because it wasn't your fault.” Edward lets his mind wander back to what he's been forcing himself not to consider. “It was mine. I opened the armoury. I panicked.” He was supposed to keep a cool head under pressure, and he hadn't. He has no recollection of what he was thinking in that moment, but he was supposed to be in control, and he wasn't. 

“You didn't cause it.”

“I didn't help. I was a coward.” 

“No! You're not at all.” 

“I wanted to abandon the ill.” 

“You didn't abandon me.” 

“I thought about it.” 

“Christ, Edward, we all had thoughts out there.” Thomas puts down the razor. “When I was in a very bad way, I thought everybody was laughing at me. That you were laughing at me. You looked right at me and told me I was a fool to think you could feel anything for me, that I was a pitiful Mary Ann, no better than a dockside doxy, and nobody would ever love me. You walked away while I cried.” 

“I'm sorry,” Edward tells him, although he would never say such things about anyone, let alone Thomas.

Thomas laughs, a real laugh even if there's a sliver of a sob in it. He pulls Edward close, his face against Thomas' chest, heedless of the shaving cream he's spreading on his shirt. “I don't blame you for an hallucination.” 

“In that case,” Edward says, “don't blame yourself for something that was in no way your fault.” 

For a long, long moment, Thomas does nothing. Then, slowly, he takes up his cloth and cleans the rest of the cream from Edward's half-shaven face. 

“Thomas,” he begins, but Thomas slings a leg over his, shutting him up. The chair protests, but holds fast as Thomas lowers himself onto Edward's lap and kisses him.

It's everything Edward ever dreamed about, in his cramped bunk on _Terror_ and here in the vast expanse of his empty bed, which isn't so empty any more. The time and the space to explore Thomas' body, to taste every inch of his skin, and to be tasted and explored in return, is an unimaginable luxury. Where it was once a race to the finish before they were interrupted, here Edward can spend whole minutes bestowing open-mouthed kisses on each of Thomas' nipples, minutes more adoring the small constellation of freckles he finds on the inside of Thomas' thigh. 

When Thomas whispers, “Do it, please,” Edward, casting his eyes about for something to ease the way, obligingly tries to turn him onto his front. Thomas shakes his head. “Like this.” 

Edward's never done it in that fashion before, face to face. The idea appeals immeasurably. “I will require instruction.” 

The confession earns him another kiss, long and deep. When he pulls away, Thomas says, “Darling.” It's the first endearment of any type that's passed between them. Edward assumed Thomas didn't care for them, but when he replies, “My love,” Thomas gasps and holds him tighter, his hands in Edward's hair and his legs around Edward's waist. 

“It would appear,” Thomas says afterwards, resting his head on Edward's chest and tracing patterns on Edward's stomach with his long, nimble fingers, “I am still incapable of giving you a professional shave.”

“Have to keep practising,” Edward suggests. He runs a hand through Thomas' hair. It's as soft as ever, and he's always loved touching it. 

“Hm. I suppose there's nothing else for it.” Thomas plants a kiss on Edward's shoulder. “Perhaps we should go downstairs. Bobby will be wondering what we're up to.” Edward suspects Bobby might have some idea. It gives him an uncomfortable _frisson_ to think of it, but he puts it out of his mind. Apparently, Captain Crozier may have known all along, in any case. 

Edward tightens his grip on Thomas. “Stay with me,” he says. “Not only for now. For good.” 

Thomas sighs, but doesn't make any move to leave Edward's embrace. “I'm not the prettiest man in the Arctic anymore, Edward. And my mind...” He pulls a face. “Are you sure you still want me? For good?”

Edward can't answer quickly enough. “Yes,” he says. “I do.”


	3. Epilogue

Edward's—alleged—snoring and Thomas' terrible dreams mean nights are not peaceful in their bed. Perhaps thanks to a seasonal miracle, Christmas Eve brings respite. Edward awakens Christmas morning after a rare full night's rest, to find Thomas sleeping soundly at his side, his arm flung possessively over Edward's waist. 

Carefully, Edward extricates himself and goes over to the window. Few Londoners are hoping _not_ to have snow for Christmas. Edward is one. His prayers are realized. He lifts a corner of the curtain to see drizzly rain falling from a grey, overcast sky, and he's grateful for it. 

He goes to the trunk at the end of the bed, slowly lifts the lid, and pulls out a small box. 

In Edward's life, there have been two significant ambitions, two achievements he desired beyond any other: to join the Royal Navy, and to live with Thomas Jopson. He realized both, and he knows that makes him far more fortunate than the vast majority of men. 

Their house is small. Two tiny bedrooms upstairs, two slightly larger rooms down. A postage stamp garden and a privy at the bottom of it. To Edward, it's a palace. He pays for it himself, thanks to his job at a shipping company, without a penny of his family's money. None was offered once they found out he planned to live with a former shipmate. He likes to think he would have refused it in any case.

For appearances' sake, Thomas and Edward employ a maid-of-all-work, Mrs. Parker, who mostly cares for her infant son while Thomas cleans and cooks and looks after Edward and his clothing and the house in a way that seems to make him happy, or at least happier than he once was. He talks, sometimes, of finding an outside job of his own, but as long as Thomas is satisfied at home, Edward is content with the way things are.

As he watches Thomas sleep, Edward's stomach churns. What if he doesn't like his gift? What if he doesn't understand the significance? What if it's not what he wants? But Edward is not a coward after all, and he trusts himself—he trust Thomas—enough to take the leap. 

Thomas' sleep is precious and hard won. Edward has no desire to disturb him, but he also very much wants him to wake up. After a quarter of an hour, Edward clears his throat. There is no reaction. Another five minutes, and Edward coughs loudly. Still nothing. Finally, as he is about to contrive to accidentally bump him in the narrow bed, Thomas stirs. 

“Happy Christmas,” Edward says. 

Thomas' bleary eyes open, and a slow smile spreads across his face. “Happy Christmas." 

Thomas decorated. There is some newfangled German thing called a “Christmas tree” stuffed into the front parlour downstairs, festooned with paper garlands and perpetually dropping needles on the floor. Perhaps, Edward thinks, they should exchange their gifts in front of this monstrosity, but he can't wait that long. Thomas has barely struggled to a sitting position when Edward thrusts the box into his hands. 

The ring is a little too big. Edward knows that. He had to pretend he was buying it for himself, so it was fitted to his larger fingers. “You'll have to get it altered,” he says, as Thomas pulls it from the box. 

It's silver, just like Edward always imagined. Square on the top, embossed with the letter T and the largest diamond they could afford, which was smaller than he would have thought. Still, it's exactly what he wanted to give Thomas. From Thomas' expression, he's not unhappy to receive it. 

“It's beautiful.” He slips the ring onto his right hand and leans over for a kiss. “Thank you, darling.” 

Edward flushes, suddenly embarrassed. “It's nothing.” Or is it too much? Edward examines Thomas' face for a hint. 

“You know,” Thomas says, “I was dreadfully sad to lose the first ring you gave me. I kept it until the end.” 

“Did you?” 

“Of course. It was the first marriage proposal I ever received. Even if it was extraordinarily unexpected.” Even now, after all that's come between them, that memory still makes Edward want to crawl beneath the bed and never emerge. “This one is very lovely, too,” Thomas goes on, admiring it. “I think perhaps, when we're at home by ourselves, I might wish to wear it like this.” He removes the ring from his right hand and places it on his left. “What would you think of that, Edward?” 

Edward thinks a very great deal about that. As usual, words fail him. Instead, he takes Thomas into his arms and kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

“Don't you want to know what I got for you?” Thomas asks, laughing. He pulls away just a little, his hands firmly planted on Edward's shoulders and their legs entwined beneath the bedclothes. 

“You've already given me everything,” Edward replies. It's true.

“Is that so? I wish you'd told me earlier. Would have saved me a lot of bother.” But he brings Edward close again, one hand sliding up into Edward's hair and the other down to his arse. 

Edward's gift is a puppy. A black mongrel, excitable and affectionate. Bobby brings him over later in the day, and at once, Edward can picture him getting under Thomas' feet just as Neptune did on _Terror. _

“I suppose that seals it, then,” Thomas says. The puppy, still nameless, sniffs curiously around the bottom of the Christmas tree. “You can't go back to sea. You've a family to look after.” 

Edward didn't know he was worrying about that. “I won't,” he assures him. There's more he wants to say, but Bobby is there, examining his own gifts of tobacco and gin, and Edward is not yet in a position to make declarations of love in front of a third party. It's one thing to know someone knows about them, he finds, and quite another to make a show of it. 

“Good.” Thomas stands. “Now, I suppose you want your dinner, don't you?” 

It's excellent, of course. Thomas had never had cause to cook before, but he rapidly became as good at that as he does at everything else he sets his mind to. When Thomas serves the pudding, Edward feels a visceral dread, but he focuses on Thomas' hands, and the glint of silver on his left ring finger, and takes a bite, immediately into a piece of metal. 

It's the lucky sixpence. 

“Well done, Edward,” Bobby says, reaching down to feed the puppy a scrap of goose meat from his hand. He was finally convinced to stop saying “sir” when Thomas and Edward came to live together. “Suppose that makes you like me brother, too, don't it?” He said, surprising Edward with how deeply the words touched him. “You'll have good fortune in the coming year.”

Edward, unsure of just how much more good fortune a man could rightfully expect, finishes his pudding and helps himself to a second serving.


End file.
